Dreamtime
by Scribblesinink
Summary: When Emma's fantasies turn into reality, she discovers an unknown side of Brennan and ends up with more than a dream come true. Please note: not all of the story can be posted to ff net due to NC17 material, you will need to go offsite.


AUTHOR NOTES: Many people asked for a _Dreamscape_-sequel. Well, here it is! You won't have to have read _Dreamscape_ first to understand _Dreamtime _but it would help to get the... ehm... full experience_._  
The title _Dreamtime_ stems from the Aboriginal myths of creation. The poem quoted is _I sing the body electric_ by Walt Whitman from his collection _Leaves of Grass_ (Philadelphia: David McKay, [c1900]), reproduced without permission.  
Last but not least many thanks to Lanfear for betaing this for me. Her comments helped tighten the story and made it so much better.

DREAMTIME

"Adam?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think dreams can come true? Literally, I mean, not metaphorically. That what happens in a dream can be real?"

"That's an odd question, Brennan. Actually, there are cultures that believe dreams can spill over into reality. For example, when someone dies in his dreams, he never wakes up. I don't know if it's true, though. I've never seen any proof."

"Do you think someone like Emma could _make_ it happen? A telepath?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure what she can or can't do. Emma has an immense reservoir of power that she's barely tapped into yet. Why do you ask? Did something happen with Emma?"

"Oh, no. No reason. Just wondering."

* * *

Rain pattered against the rock of Stormking Mountain in a distant whisper far overhead. The excess water gurgled down the drainage pipes, giving the impression of murmuring voices in the Sanctuary walls. The muted sounds were comforting; they reminded Emma of the rainy Sunday afternoons of her childhood. The DeLauro household possessed neither TV nor radio to provide entertainment. So, whenever the weather forced the family indoors, her father would sit her on his knees and read stories from _Grimm's Fairy Tales_. To young Emma, those afternoons were magical. Using different voices, her father made the characters come alive and Emma would shiver in pleasurable fright when the wolf swallowed Little Red Riding Hood, or squeal with joy when Gretel pushed the wicked witch into the oven. Yes, rain usually made her remember her childhood with fondness.

Today, however, was Monday. And it had rained for three days straight. The book of poetry in Emma's lap --on loan from Brennan's extensive Walt Whitman collection-- failed to hold her attention. And how could it, she thought, nibbling pensively on her lower lip. How could she continue to read when the poet's words turned real before her very eyes?

She glanced briefly at the page and her lips mouthed the words without making sound:

__

But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face;  
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists;   
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees--dress does not hide him;   
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel;   
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more;  
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

Oh, did Whitman get it right. Watching was so much better than the best poem in the book. She pulled her chair closer to the second floor railing for a better view and peeked through her lashes down at the dojo where Brennan was working out.

He was performing a series of tai chi forms, each separate move executed in slow motion. Brennan was a big man, yet everything about him was graceful. The way he flexed at the waist, how he shifted from one leg to another, the way he carried himself. Emma's eyes wandered across his back and the back of his neck and those strong, wide shoulders. Tanned skin rippled over muscles quivering with tension as Brennan ran through his exercises. Emma licked her lips. He had been working out for at least an hour and his bare torso was covered with a tiny sheen of sweat. But instead of putting her off, it made his skin gleam and accentuated the sculpted abs.

While she watched, the rain continued to murmur in the distance. The sound mesmerized her; the soft cushions cradled her body, making her feel secure and comfortable. Emma's eyes slowly lost focus until her eyelids drooped. 

__

I'm sorry. FF.net does not allow NC17 stories to be posted here. Therefore, if you want to read the rest of this story, you will have to visit my site, which I would mention here if FF.net allowed links. You'll need to go look up my Author Profile for the link. Please be forewarned that the story is of a sexual nature and somewhat explicit. So if you're underage, please return to FF.net's homepage for more innocent stories. Sorry for the inconvenience.


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